


Company

by Proctor



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Banter, Blow Jobs, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:20:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22784734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Proctor/pseuds/Proctor
Summary: After failing to charm the ladies in the tavern, Jaskier finds himself in Geralt's room.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 53
Kudos: 425
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection





	Company

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 한국어 available: [한글 번역]Company](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28646004) by [therrion_Rottenapple](https://archiveofourown.org/users/therrion_Rottenapple/pseuds/therrion_Rottenapple)



> Takes place at some point before episode 5. Hope you enjoy. :)

Geralt and Jaskier sat at the corner table of the bustling tavern awaiting their drinks. The air was thick with the pungent smell of stale ale and rich stew; the rumble of chatter was drowned out by abrupt outbreaks of uproarious laughter as men told a variety of saucy and humorous tales; insults were hurled with increasing vigour until a drunken skirmish began; and a chicken was making a nuisance of itself, causing the barmaid to curse every time she tripped over it, “Out me bloody way, you feathered little fucker!” she cried.

“Ah…” Jaskier sighed happily, raising his hands in an appreciative gesture of the calamity around them before slapping them back down against his thighs, “…civilisation.”

“You call this civil,” Geralt grumbled, his deep, gravelly voice so monotone that Jaskier couldn’t be sure whether he was asking a question or simply making a statement.

“Well, I happen to find it a _significant_ improvement on the swamp.”

“I liked the swamp,” Geralt said flatly.

Knowing him, it was quite possibly true, yet the remark had an air of childish petulance about it, a particular brand of sulk made all the more amusing for its deadpan delivery. “Now, now, Grumps, no need to be like that,” Jaskier chastised playfully before adopting a more theatrical tone and motioning his hands expressively. “The evening has only just begun and it _tantalises_ us with the promise of merry moonlit delights: of song, of dance, and most temptingly of all, of brief but _passionate_ love affairs.” He then became distracted, glancing behind as the coarse, chicken-flustered barmaid approached the table. “Talking of which…”

Geralt sighed. _Five minutes and already in love. Spoony bard._

She brought with her two tankards, slamming them on the oak table with such force that Jaskier jumped slightly in his seat, both from the sudden noise and from the resulting slosh and spill on his favourite britches. He tried not to appear too affected by the possible ruin of the expensive garment but Geralt noticed him subtly flicking over it with a finger.

“Ahem. Why thank you, my lady, and might I say how welcome the sight of your fine self is on this cold, blustery night…”

 _Here we go again._ Watching Jaskier begin his ritual flirtation was like seeing someone standing beneath a window ledge on which a precariously balanced chamberpot sat: you knew exactly what was going to happen, and even though intervention was possible and warning could be given, instead you watched with morbid curiosity as the whole shitty thing unfolded before your eyes.

“...Your hair like spun gold…” Jaskier continued, “…your eyes like sparkling sapphires, shimmering on an endless plane of…” but he struggled to think of a comparison to her slightly uneven, off-white skin, “…mashed…potato?”

 _And there it was._ Geralt closed his eyes and shook his head in dismay.

“But _really_ good mashed potato,” Jaskier quickly added, “you know, the kind your mother used to make. Well, not _my_ mother, she didn’t cook, but _your_ mother probably does. Not that I’m suggesting that you can’t afford servants- not that there’s any shame in that. I just-

The barmaid looked at Jaskier with an expression somewhere between confusion and disgust then turned heel and promptly strode away, tutting with a vexation that Geralt found a little humorous but Jasker did not. It wasn’t the reaction he had hoped for, but alas, he was not unfamiliar with it. “Well,” he started, watching her departure, “ _that_ love affair was _certainly_ brief.”

“And as passionate as I expected,” Geralt said with an arch of an eyebrow, but while his tone was dull, Jaskier noticed that his yellow eyes faintly glittered with amusement and his lips briefly twitched with smug satisfaction at his expense.

“Hmph. I see you’re doing that weird thing with your mouth again,” he huffed, puffing his chest out, “you know, when the corners of it crawl up from your jawline. A… smile, I think they call it, but a mean one.”

“Probably something in my teeth,” Geralt suggested, but his smile only widened at how clearly affronted Jaskier was.

Despite the insult, seeing Geralt having fun was a rare delight, so Jaskier graciously decided let him off with it, taking a small sip of ale then nursing the tankard, trying to appear casual as he resumed his previous topic. “And you? Are you…hoping for some company tonight?”

“If I am, I’ll pay for it.”

Jaskier’s eyes shifted from side to side and he leaned in close, lowering his voice.“You know, every woman in this tavern has looked at you since we arrived. Admittedly, some were clearly just perturbed by your stony visage, but others showed a keen interest. You needn’t pay to share your bed.”

Geralt didn’t want to have this discussion, but decided to address the matter so as to avoid revisiting it. “Women have expectations that paid women do not. Best to avoid them.”

“Charming.”

“You should consider it. Save yourself some embarrassment.”

It wasn’t that Jaskier had never indulged, but part of the appeal of ending up in bed with someone was the flirtation that preceded it; the conversation and gauging of interest, the ‘will they, won’t they’ uncertainty. Without that, it was simply an exchange of money for services, and while that seemed to suit Geralt just fine, he liked to think of himself as more of a romantic, one who preferred to be desired on his own merits rather than by the weight of his coin-purse - which was just as well, as it was rather light this evening.

“That won’t be necessary. I intend to capture the heart of every maiden in this room, and all in the same five minutes… or ten minutes, or…well, I won’t tether myself to a bell-toll, suffice it to say that it will occur quickly, simultaneously, and with breathtaking ‘woo’-age.” He waited for Geralt to ask him how, but he didn’t. “ _How? I hear you say._ Well, I’m glad you asked. Why, with the power…” he paused for dramatic effect “…of music,” he finished with a flourish of his fingers, petted his lute case then raised his tankard in honour of himself and held it there… but found no reciprocation. “No? Not even a little?”

There was no need for Geralt to have asked, Jaskier always seemed to think that a song was enough to earn him a cot partner (even if that song was one about a carpenter with a swollen testicle). On rare occasion, Jaskier would get lucky, but it was more likely a result of playing the odds than playing his lute.

Regardless of his questionable musical talents though, his personality did seem to resonate with the nobility, especially the mature ladies who were flattered by his youthful interest, amused by his unconventional manner, and bored of their tedious husbands. The patrons of taverns such as this however, were too savvy for his advances yet too dim for his wit, and even though Jaskier could be considered attractive in spite of his general idiocy, it was in a way too foppish to hold much appeal here…to the women anyway. Now and again he would notice a man in the crowd eyeing him up in clear appreciation of his tight, tailored clothing, coiffed, boyish haircut, and arguably charming smile. Of course, Jaskier seemed more than happy to receive the attention, flirting shamelessly with anything that moved, though if he had better success with these men, Geralt didn’t know.

Still, Jaskier was motivated tonight, and whether his hunt for a whirlwind romance came to fruition or not, he thought he should show at least a modicum of encouragement. He took a deep breath through his nostrils, pressed his mouth into a thin line, and lifted his drinking vessel a meagre half-inch from the table, yet even in its modest enthusiasm, the gesture of support appeared to please Jaskier immeasurably who smiled like a fool and lowered his tankard to give his own a small clink.

*

After an hour or so of drinking with Geralt, and a conversation that was mostly one-sided but scattered with enough sarcastic comments and dry humour to prove a worthwhile endeavour, Jaskier retrieved his lute and began tuning his strings, pausing to gargle some ale and hum a few scales. “Ahem. Right. Time for me to shine.”

“Time for me to go,” Geralt announced, rising from the table but giving Jaskier a pat on the shoulder.

Jaskier was surprised by the gesture, and would have been warmed by it if it hadn’t been laden with such sympathy and scepticism. _‘Good luck with that’_ it said. Furthermore, he had rather hoped Geralt would watch his performance, notice the new songs ode to him, and relive their adventures together through his art (even if the particulars were slightly augmented for entertainment purposes). He didn’t want to mention his yearning for approval though, it sounded too needy, so instead he called after him: “You’ll miss one about a three-legged goat,” in a somewhat feeble bid to lure him back, but Geralt’s burly, leather-clad frame was already stalking through the parting crowd towards the staircase that led to the rented rooms above.

He was mildly curious to know if Geralt would indeed pay for his intimacy tonight. He didn’t begrudge him it of course, it made no difference to him how he spent his earnings, and a man has needs, but it often made him wonder what kind of lover he was to these women. Was he quick and rough or slow and sensual? Did he bring his partners off before he came or did he single-mindedly seek to empty his balls? Perhaps he fucked them a few times within the hour because he was some sort of sexually insatiable beast… or alternatively because he appreciated value for money. He imagined his bedside manner had a lot to be desired, but he was handsome, hung like a horse, and had a bag full of silver, so it probably didn’t matter. _Might be a song there_ , he thought.

Fair ladies doth the white wolf take to his bed

Who seek of his coin to keep themselves fed

But they cannot complain, nor challenge, nor mock

As he satisfies them with his great, massive-

_Hmm, needs work._ Admittedly, he was making light of it, but only because it was preferable to the persistent niggle in the back of his mind.

Of course he found Geralt attractive, his brawny physique and striking features made him quite the unique and beautiful man, but that was only part of his allure. Despite his surliness he had a good sense of humour; despite his constant complaints about his presence, he had saved him from imminent doom more times than he could count; and despite posturing disinterest when it came to people and their plights, he almost always ended up helping them - a big sweetheart really.

But for all his deeper knowledge and appreciation of these redeeming qualities, Geralt seemed ignorant of his interest. In some ways it was actually easier, then he didn’t need to question himself whenever they brushed against each other, or when he patched him up, or bathed him, or massaged the taut globes of his exquisite arse…

*

Geralt lit a candle from the fire in the hearth, placing it on the rickety bedside table, and began to undress. Today’s kill was an exhausting one, something Jaskier clearly had no understanding of as he had sat on a tree-stump eating grapes by the water’s edge while shouting ‘Aim for the head!’ and ‘Yikes! You’ll want some salve on that one, old boy,’ like it was some form of entertainment. More irksome still, was the fact that he was probably writing a song about how he rallied a Witcher on the brink of defeat with his advice and support.

He climbed into bed and drew the sheet over himself. In honesty, he’d never had any intention of visiting the local brothel tonight, he was too tired, so it had mildly surprised him that when asked if he hoped for company, instead of simply saying no, he had given an answer that implied indecision, as though it was important for Jaskier to know that he might, or that he could, and he couldn’t work out why that had seemed necessary. If it were pride, then he was a lot pettier than he thought.

He listened in the quiet room to the distant sound of a lute and the off-key singing of a group of rough baritone voices led by a higher, truer one. He soon recognised the tune. _Toss a coin to your_ \- he ran a palm over his face and groaned weakly. _That fucking song._

It wasn’tso much because he had heard it so many times, or even because people would croon it to him in the street, but because it spoke of a Witcher who was here to help, and while that might have given him more opportunities for coin, it had also resulted in him being approached by those who couldn’t anywhere _near_ afford him but begged in desperation for the services of ‘humanity’s friend’. He _had_ lent his assistance though, against his better judgement, and it had drawn him into all kinds of trouble, trouble that he could have avoided were it not for thatbloodybard…

He couldn’t be too critical though, it was that same ‘fucking song’ that had quelled public hostility towards him and that same ‘bloody bard’ who tended to his injuries, cleaned him up, kept him organised, and intentionally or not, made him smile. He suspected he was growing a little fond of the idiot.

*

Despite a receptive audience, Jaskier’s night had not been the success that he had hoped for. Asides from a full-scale brawl breaking out - the din and flying furniture making it impossible for him to continue playing - he had not met anyone with whom to share his evening. He spent some time with a rather comely redhead, but abruptly made his excuses when he noticed a man glaring at him threateningly from across the room and rounding up his cronies - clearly not her husband, but worse, a jealous admirer. He could have pursued her had he possessed a reckless disregard for his own personal safety, or persevered with another had he the motivation, but instead he cut his losses and began to ascend the stairs in search of slumber.

As he passed Geralt’s door however, he stopped. The room was probably empty, its occupant no doubt sating his lust somewhere down the road, but he was curious enough to take a peek.

He turned the brass doorknob slowly to avoid its rusty squeak and creaked the door open no more than an inch. Under the low orange firelight, he found Geralt sleeping soundly, naked and sprawled on his back beneath a sheet that barely covered him, his wide, furry chest rising and falling with each steady breath, his icy hair a little messy from turning on the pillow. For a dangerous man, he looked rather harmless like that, sweet even, and mesmerising enough that Jaskier wanted to watch him a little longer.

He stepped in and closed the door quietly behind him then gently put his lute case down and crept across the wooden floorboards.

“You’re a terrible sneak, Jaskier,” came a rumbling voice.

Jaskier froze mid-step then, but then relaxed. A part of him had half-expected that he would get caught by his hyper-vigilant companion - the man could hear a dog fart from five miles away, so he was probably aware of a clumsy bard fumbling around in his room.

He looked towards the bed but Geralt had obviously deduced that it was him from the sound alone because he lay with his eyes still closed, unrattled by the possibility of a more nefarious intruder.

“ _Sneaking?_ _Me?_ No, no, I wasn’t sneaking, I was just…moving quietly…to avoid detection.”

“So, sneaking then,” Geralt remarked, but made no attempt to open his eyes.

“Alright, _fine,”_ he said, throwing his hands up in the air in defeat _._ “I was. I only wanted to see if you were awake. I am bored and wish to spread my suffering.”

Normally, Geralt would have been most displeased to be woken up just to listen to Jaskier whine, but in truth, he had already been alerted by the familiar footsteps on the stairs long before his room was infiltrated. It _had_ crossed his mind to continue feigning sleep, but listening to Jaskier’s dreadful attempts at stealth for any length of time would have been too frustrating to bear. “Had your fill of ale and women then?” he asked instead, mildly curious to know if he was drunk and had fucked.

“I ran out of coin for ale, and the women were not particularly…” he paused, “…enamoured by my music.”

“Baffling.”

“ _Yes!_ My thoughts exactly! Glad _someone_ has some sense- Wait, are you teasing me?”

“I am.”

Jaskier gave a vaguely insulted huff, but wandered over and perched on the side of the bed. “In any case, I find myself at odds with this cruel world, Geralt. Poor and alone.” He waited for a response, some sympathy perhaps, but received none. “ _Well?_ ”

Geralt frowned and finally peered down at him from the pillow. “What? You’re often poor and alone.”

He thought about it for a second. “Hmm, that’s true,” he agreed, before brightening, “Well, not _completely_ alone. I am currently blessed with the company of your fine self.”

It was the second time this evening that Geralt had heard the phrase ‘your fine self’, and he wondered if Jaskier was trying to woo him as he had the barmaid. “Hm. Is my skin like mashed potato?’ he asked, trying to keep a straight face.

“Oh, ha-ha. Very funny. Yes, well, it wasn’t my finest-” but then his eyes flew open as he realised what he was insinuating. “Geralt of Rivia, are you suggesting that I’m flirting with you?”

“Are you?” Geralt asked plainly.

Jaskier was at a loss for words. He had expected a mocking retort, not such a stark, honest question, and in delayed response, gave an abrupt and exaggerated laugh. “Pfffffft. _No_ ,” he scoffed, as if the mere notion were ridiculous, but Geralt continued to stare at him with an unreadable expression. “I mean, why would…? It’s not as though… You of all people- That is…I mean I…”

There was always satisfaction to be found in seeing Jaskier flounder, and this was no exception - in a way, it was rather adorable. But after watching him squirm for a few moments longer, he decided to put him out of his misery, lifting his hand slightly off the bed in a gesture for him to cease his babbling, and that he meant no offence.

An end to the discussion should have come as a relief, but the questions it raised made Jaskier reluctant to leave it at that. “But… if I _were_ flirting with you - hypothetically speaking of course -” he added to preserve his dignity, “how might you…” he picked idly at the sheets, “…how might you feel…about that?”

“Like I had joined the ranks of the public majority.”

“Oi! I’m not _that_ bad,” he protested, before briefly mulling it over, “am I?”

“No. You’re not that bad,” Geralt smiled, and it looked distinctly affectionate.

Feeling a little bold, Jaskier gingerly reached out and touched Geralt’s exposed calf, bracing himself for reproach… but Geralt didn’t so much as flinch. Spurred on, he began to stroke him modestly with his thumb, opting to watch its small, reserved movements instead of meeting his eyes, “Good enough to be in the…intimate company of?” he asked as casually as he could.

Normally, Geralt didn’t keep the company of men, but as he looked at Jaskier, with his high-waisted powder-blue britches clinging snugly to his parted thighs; his flouncy white shirt unbuttoned at the top to reveal his soft chest hair; and his long dark eyelashes feathered down over pinkened cheeks, he realised that he found him quite enticing in that moment, and that the revelation didn’t surprise him as much as he thought it might.

“Well, you’ve already woken me up,” he shrugged, “may as well make it worth my while.”

Jaskier stilled his thumb and smiled to himself. How like Geralt it was to agree to something of no small significance under the pretence of shallow personal gain, and with such apparent insouciance. That said, it was still a ‘yes’.

He slowly dragged his palm up the length of Geralt’s sculpted calf, gripping the solid meat of it as he went simply because he could, simply because unlike the dainty limbs of a woman, strong muscles like that could take a little force, then, with a lighter touch, dipped his fingers into the crook of his knee, curling them against the sensitive skin and gently pressing on a strong vein where it protruded.

The higher he got, the warmer Geralt’s body was, and he pursued the trail of heat to the middle of his thigh where the edge of the linen sheet lay. He paused to look up at Geralt whose expression remained neutral, but whose darkened golden eyes were following the movements of his hand, seemingly intrigued. Taking it as a sign of assent, he slipped his fingers under the fabric.

With nothing to see but the gathering of the sheet around Jaskier’s wrist, Geralt finally met his gaze and kept it steady, even as he felt a warm palm slide up his inner thigh.

He knew those hands well, and every time Jaskier dragged him by the wrist, slapped him jovially on the back, scrubbed the muck from his skin, or fussily dressed him, he came to understand them a little better. Yet for all their familiarity, he had never known a more sensual touch from him, in fact, he didn’t know he even possessed the capacity for it, so seeing this side to him was a new experience…and it made him unexpectedly hard.

Jaskier happily noticed the tent in the sheet, it matched the one in his own britches, but Geralt was no doubt used to eager grabs of his cock, so instead he kept his hand pressed flush to his thigh, inching his way up until he met with the clammy heat of his large, heavy bollocks. He gently clasped one in his palm and rolled it around in its sac, and was pleased to see Geralt’s lips part ever-so-slightly as he drew in a sharper breath. It was a small reaction, but a gratifying one. Emboldened, he pressed his thumb and forefinger between them, taking hold of the thin, crinkly skin, and dragged his sac downwards and away from his body, releasing him at maximum tension so that his balls bounced back up then repeating the motion.

A quiet ‘Mmm’ sounded at the back of Geralt’s throat, and with great satisfaction Jaskier realised that his Witcher was a ball-man. This was good information, though not entirely surprising. Geralt liked his women, but few women (even paid ones) knew their way around a man’s testicles - you really needed a pair of your own to understand their preferences, and he was glad in that moment that he did.

He had spent long enough playing with them though, and imagined that Geralt’s big, neglected cock was in need of some attention. He reached up to grip the root of it… and frowned, and Geralt frowned back.

He could barely fit his fingers around it.

He had seen him naked often enough and had assumed that he couldn’t possibly fill out much more when erect, but he was clearly mistaken. Shaken by the mere thought of it, he used his other hand to whip the sheet back… and there it stood, its unfeasible dimensions displayed before him.

He gulped. “Well that’s……terrifying.”

“Thank you for that candid assessment of my cock, Jaskier,” Geralt said dryly.

“I meant it as a compliment, it’s… exceptional. Like a big, angry sausage.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow at him.

He tilted his head to get a better look, marvelling not just at the scale, but at the shape and colour: wide from its hairy base to its engorged head, straight as an arrow, and almost crimson under the dim light.

He ran a finger up the taut underside of it once then followed a thick branching vein all the way to the tip, pressing his finger into the ample precome pooling in the slit and tasting it. He didn’t expect it to have any flavour, just did it out of curiosity, so was surprised to find that it tasted almost… herbal. Must be all those potions he drank.

“Do you suppose that if I swallow your seed, I’ll gain powerful abilities?” he asked curiously, genuinely considering the prospect.

Geralt looked at him, bewildered but humoured by his inappropriately timed musings. “No. But you’re welcome to try.”

Jaskier didn’t know if that was a seductive invitation or a subtle hint for him to get on with it, but it encouraged him either way, so he took a firm hold of his cock, licked his lips and raised his eyebrows suggestively before swooping down, taking the swollen crown in his mouth and giving it a sloppy, wet suck. The short grunt that came from Geralt lay somewhere between pleasure and surprise, and it made Jaskier immensely pleased to have caused it. Having proved his intended vigour, he pulled off with a pop and twisted his body around, slinging a booted leg onto the bed and lowering himself to rest comfortably on an elbow.

He leaned forward and swiped his tongue over the ridges just below the head and followed the circumference of the flared outer edge, then, in finding no objection to his play, flicked his tongue into his slit. He felt Geralt spread his legs further apart underneath him and took it to be a sign of eagerness, so he wrapped his lips around him again and began to slip him in and out of his mouth at a fairly lively pace, this time with a little more pressure and with accompanying strokes, the skin in his palm sliding smoothly over the steely muscle beneath.

Geralt breathed deeply as he observed through lidded eyes, a low groan escaping him every now and again, especially when the speed or technique changed. Jaskier was skilled and admirably dedicated, though he still struggled rather beautifully every time he experimented on his length, eyes watering at the edges, saliva pouring down his chin, and a couple of coughs when he pushed himself too far. In fact, considering that Jaskier had a reputation as a womaniser, it was almost alarming how good he looked with a cock in his mouth: his lips stretched wide, soaked and cherry coloured with the suction and friction; his hollowed cheeks reddening with effort; and his usually dashing chestnut hair becoming more unkempt with each second he spent bobbing up and down between his legs.

Geralt reached his hand out to tip his chin up, just to make sure he was alright.

“Mmph?” Jaskier queried around his cock as he looked up at him, his normally crystal blue eyes darkened to cobalt in the weak light.

“Nothing. It’s good,” he said, and rested with his arms behind his head, letting his eyes flutter shut.

Some may have considered it rude for a man to appear so casual while being serviced, but Jaskier liked to see him relaxed for a change, relaxed and content, so he forgave his lack of decorum. Also, now that Geralt’s eyes were closed and he was more unsuspecting, he decided to indulge another urge. He let his cock slip from his mouth but continued to tug him to avoid raising suspicion, and when no objection was made, he shifted on his elbow and leaned over Geralt’s broad torso before bending down and enclosing his lips around a small, hardened nipple.

“Mmn,” Geralt moaned, and to Jaskier’s surprise, instead of chastising him for the intimate gesture as expected, he freed a hand to wrap it around the nape of his neck and pulled him into the warmth of his tit. Jaskier rubbed his nose in his chest hair and inhaled the scent of him while he swirled his tongue over the tiny bud, speeding up the movement of his hand on his cock at the same time.

Geralt groaned as he felt Jaskier’s knuckles shake rapidly against his belly, and paired with the hot, wet mouth slurping on his nipple - an area that was so rarely touched - sensed his climax approach. He tightened his hold around the back of Jaskier’s neck, conscious of the short, clipped hair that resided there instead of long womanly tresses and of the jerks of his soft-skinned but firm-gripped palm, and came with a deep groan, long, heavy pulses of his release exiting him.

He let his hand fall to the bed, and when Jaskier finally rose from his chest, noticed that he had gotten the majority of his spend on him, cloudy-white dollops of it clinging to his chin and neck. But instead of cleaning himself up, he just sat there, covered in it, with an annoyingly self-satisfied grin on his face.

“Don’t…look at me…like that,” he breathed.

“Oh-ho, no. I earned this grin, and you won’t take it from me,” Jaskier laughed, then wiped his neck and looked down, amazed by the quantity of semen on the back of his hand. He scooped up another large glob from his collarbone and examined it on his fingers.

“ _Bloody hell,_ Geralt, you pack more cream than a milkmaid. No wonder your _balls_ are so big,” he commented, tasting a bit and wiping the rest on the sheet.

Geralt pressed his lips together and closed his eyes, cringing at his crudeness.

To his amazement, Jaskier noticed that a droplet had somehow travelled far enough to lie in the deep dimple of Geralt’s chin, “incredible…” he remarked, then licked his thumb and rubbed it off in a way not dissimilar to the way a mother would clean up her messy child.

“Stop that.”

“...Good expulsion…”

“I said stop it,” Geralt groused, but without any heat, batting his hand away then yanking on Jaskier’s shirt. “Are you taking these off at any point tonight?”

“Well I… Oh.” He realised that Geralt wanted him naked. “Ohhhh.” He realised that Geralt wanted him naked so that he could presumably bring him off.

His erection, which had only slightly flagged in their puerile exchange, perked back up immediately in interest. He had thought that was it, and could have gone to bed a happy man having experienced this alone, but there was no way that he could miss out on the chance to have Geralt touch him. “Uh…yes. I am. I can do that. That is _definitely_ something I can do,” he said, quickly tugging his boots off.

Geralt watched Jaskier undress, and even though he had seen him naked plenty of times before from sharing rooms and baths, found that the sight pleased him more tonight. His skin looked warm and inviting in the muted glow of the firelight, and while he was quite lean, it clung to his more supple areas, accenting that ‘noble softness’ that he knew would feel good against him - if he allowed it. As Jaskier stepped out of his britches, kicking them somewhere across the floor, (those same britches that he had fussed over earlier), his eyes followed the trail of dark hair from his collarbone over his chest, tapering down his belly and fanning out around the base of his cock which stood from his body, pale-stalked but pink-tipped with a graceful upward curve.

Jaskier looked down at his cock, then at Geralt, then back down at his cock.

“I mean, I’m happy with it. No complaints so far, but obviously you-”

“I like it. Bring it here.”

“You… really?” he said, climbing onto the bed and straddling Geralt’s thighs.

“It’s pretty enough.”

Jaskier’s chin practically disappeared into his neck as he recoiled in disbelief, blinking over saucer-like eyes. _Geralt just told him his willy was pretty._

He barely had time to process the information though, when Geralt gave a loud spit into his hand then reached out and enclosed his warm, wet palm around him. The sudden feeling of the rough pads of his fingers made him gasp and caused his cock to twitch and push out a little precome.

Rather unsurprisingly, Geralt took no time for unnecessary caresses or experimental fondling, he just went straight to work, pulling on him and rolling his foreskin over the head of his cock at a brisk but consistent pace.

Jaskier tipped his head back and closed his eyes. “Gods, that’s nice. That is very, very nice.”

It was methodical but effective, perhaps not the way someone would normally pleasure another, but definitely the way one would pleasure themselves, and it made Jaskier imagine Geralt lying alone in bed with his hand under the sheets, tugging on that monstrous sex of his until he erupted over his fist. The idea was a lovely one and he looked down at him, at the concentration on his face… at the small gap between his lips.

He slowly shifted up the sides of Geralt’s thighs on his knees, the jerking hand moving with him until he was close enough that he could feel a hot breath against his prick. The humidity and proximity proved a significant temptation. Deciding to throw caution to the wind, he nudged his pelvis forward so that the wet tip bumped against soft, plump lips.

Geralt pulled back with a frown, wiping the precome from his mouth with the back of his hand, and glaring up at him.

It wasn’t the warmest welcome Jaskier had ever received.

“I don’t suck cock,” Geralt said bluntly.

Jaskier put his hands on his hips, his penis bobbing in front of him. “ _Okaaay_ then. Good to know. Could have been awkward. Glad it wasn’t.”

In truth, Geralt had no particular aversion and wasn’t refusing on principle, he just didn’t have experience in performing the act and didn’t consider this the ideal time to learn. It sounded harsher than he intended however, and he narrowed his eyes in deep thought before speaking. “I do fuck though.”

Jaskier gawked at him, speechless. The possibility hadn’t even occurred to him, especially since Geralt had already…had already- he spun his head around to look over his shoulder, and in one of the quickest recoveries he had ever seen, discovered that he was fully erect again, and that meant he was ready to go, ready to shove his eye-watering appendage inside him. “Right. Okay, well that’s…” he gulped, “Well, you know, I could, probably… work with that.”

Geralt gave a pleased ‘hm’ of approval.

 _So that was that_ , Jaskier thought, _they were going to fuck_.

Hesitantly, he shuffled backwards then spat into his hand and spread it over the length Geralt’s cock. Glancing up, he noticed a whisper of a smile on his face. “What?”

“You’ll need more than that, Bard.”

He was right of course, it was a vain hope that this would be as easy as all that. He puffed his cheeks out as he swilled saliva around in his mouth for a good ten seconds before expelling a large, watery gob of it through the purse of his lips and onto Geralt’s prick.

Geralt was impressed. It was practical, committed, and done without fuss. Who knew it was possible.

Jaskier took a small scoop of it and reached behind himself, gazing past the headboard, trance-like as he concentrated on diligently working it into his hole by touch.

Geralt watched him carefully and felt his cock thrum. Knowing Jaskier was fingering himself but not being able to see anything bar the roll and pull of his right shoulder was a strange but arousing tease, as was seeing him so deeply involved in the process. It was a skill he hadn’t considered.

When it looked like Jaskier was finished, pulling out with deep breath, Geralt moved to take him… but only managed to sit up a few inches before he was pushed back down into the pillow.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Jaskier said firmly, “If I’m going to take that beast inside me in one of the most profound bodily invasions of my life, then I shall do so at my own pace.”

A huff of laughter escaped Geralt at Jaskier’s unexpected authority on the matter and at his over-the-top description of their sex.

“So dramatic,” he smirked, but Jaskier gave him a cautioning look, as though he were a boy deserving of reprimand.

“Sorry,” he smiled, “continue.”

Jaskier accepted the apology and took a hold of Geralt’s cock, curling over his body so that his fringe hung in front of his face, bracing himself with a flattened palm on the sturdy abdomen below. With the other hand he reached back, pulling at one cheek of his backside to better expose his entrance then pressing their bodies together, sliding Geralt’s crown over his pucker - mostly to find the best angle, though he couldn’t deny that he liked the sensation of running it over the sensitive surrounding skin.

When he felt ready, he breathed out, relaxing himself as much as possible before pushing the tip against the tight ring with a steady pressure.

He scrunched his eyes shut and let out a gutteral groan as he was breached, the width proving a cruel stretch. “Gods… Geralt,” he whispered shakily under his breath, knotting his eyebrows together.

Geralt sucked air through his teeth as his cock was engulfed. Jaskier was tight and hot, and the way the muscles of his hole twitched around him as he descended felt utterly sublime. He wasn’t sure exactly what his expression meant though, pain or pleasure, he couldn’t tell, but he reached out to grasp his knee in a gesture that served no useful purpose but perhaps provided some reassurance.

It took a good few moments of perseverance and willpower, but Jaskier was soon assuaged, the strain of accommodating Geralt’s girth giving way to a feeling of fullness as he took in his length, one that he felt deep in the core of his belly, and by the time he settled in his lap, cushioned by warm pubic hair, he was a little dazed with how all-consuming the sensation was.

He slowly opened his eyes to find Geralt gazing up at him. “Mm?” he sounded dreamily, noticing how the arousal on Geralt’s face was edged slightly with concern. He then glanced at the palm on his knee.

Geralt quickly drew his hand back. “Nothing. Fuck me,” he grunted.

Jaskier breathed through a smile. It was a clear attempt for Geralt to reassert himself after looking a bit worried, a bit mushy, and he wondered if it was common for him to appear that way during sex.

He began to rock on him slowly and shallowly, prepared for a little dryness from having used spit alone, but actually finding that he could move with relative ease. _Geralt must have been leaking more of his plentiful herbal precome inside him, streaking his insides with it._ And that was a thought.

He put both hands on Geralt’s hairy chest and started to press back onto his cock with longer, more fluid motions, but still at a languid pace, allowing himself to feel every hot, swollen inch of him and groaning with each wonderful, sickly penetration.

Geralt looked up at Jaskier as he rode his cock. There was no mistaking the pleasure on his face now, heavy-lidded and dark-eyed, slack-jawed and red-cheeked, and no mistaking those raw, decadent sounds for anything other than the bliss of intercourse.

He bent his knees and planted his feet firmly on the mattress to ground himself then gently began to roll his hips up to meet each of Jaskier’s downward thrusts.

“Uhn…Gods…” Jaskier moaned, right from the pit of his stomach. The slow drive of Geralt’s cock inside him was so much better than his movements alone. He closed his eyes briefly, just to enjoy the feeling, but scarcely lasted half a minute before he felt compelled to open them again, unwilling to waste an opportunity to see how his Witcher looked when he made love.

Geralt was flushed from his face to his chest, breathing deeply through the slight space between his lips, his tongue darting out to moisten them whenever they grew too dry; he was sweating all over, though no doubt less than himself, the sheen of it glistening in the low glow of the fire; and while one arm lay limply on the bed, the other curled into the discarded sheet, tensing the tendons in his lower arms.

Jaskier slid his hand up and wrapped it around the back of Geralt’s neck, tight enough that it appeared to be a gesture of lust rather than affection - it seemed silly that they weren’t roaming all over each other. It must have inspired Geralt because he responded by placing a large palm around his waist, and while it served to guide their movements with more control, the stroke of his thumb on his belly did nothing to aid their cause.

He pushed back a little harder and Geralt did the same, and the tiny jolt from the increased force of that last inch resulted in a light, sweaty slap of thick thighs against his bottom and a depth that they had thus far not reached, it also caused his long moans to become clipped and wrenched deeper ones from Geralt.

Geralt dragged Jaskier down and pulled his head into the dip of his neck where it met his shoulder, holding him still so that he could buck up into him at a faster pace.

Jaskier clung on more tightly as Geralt began rutting inside him, shallowly, but so quick that they were both juddering with it, the rapid shaking causing the bed to creak; a wet, dirty slapping sound to occur between them; and Geralt’s cock to rake over and over his sweet spot.

“ _Geraaalt_ ,” he whined high and pitifully in his throat, yet had no idea what he was trying to convey to him. That it was too much? That he wanted more?

“You...had…better be close, Bard,” Geralt growled against him breathlessly, reaching between their bodies and pulling at his cock.

“I…don’t…want to spill…just yet…” he panted, wanting this to last as long as possible, but knowing at this rate, he couldn’t.

“If you want to spill…with a…hard cock in you, you will.”

And it took Jaskier a moment to realise that it was Geralt’s subtle way of warning him that he was about to ejaculate, and the thought of that alone, of being filled with his spend, was enough to tip him over the edge.

“...Geralt, I…”

But that was all he managed before he came, short abrupt squirts distributed widely across their bellies from the wild tugging on his prick.

Geralt felt Jaskier tighten around him then felt the subsequent warm splatter.

“Urgh, Fuck,” he spat, and with one final thrust, emptied himself inside him.

Jaskier felt the violent force of Geralt’s release for the second time tonight, only instead of coating his skin, it shot against his inner walls in long, hot streams, filling him deeply and remarkably generously.

They remained there for several moments, their chests heaving, but Geralt eventually -though not unkindly- patted him on the shoulder to get him to move. He lifted off, a little shaky on his knees, Geralt’s big soft cock flopping out of him, a trail of come dribbling out in its wake, and lay on his back.

For once, he wasn’t sure what to say, how to address the intimacy that had just taken place.He looked over at Geralt who was staring at the ceiling, his breath slowly evening out.

“Phew. Think I’ll be feeling that tomorrow,” he tried, then reached out his arms, “cuddle?”

Geralt slowly turned his head and looked at him as if it was the maddest thing anyone had ever uttered in his direction.

“What? No aftercare? You _animal_.”

That made Geralt smile. “You can have a cloth,” he said, reaching out to the bedside table and feeling around then throwing it at him.

“You spoil me.”

But he used it anyway, wiping his backside and scrubbing at the dried spill on his neck. “Gods, I’m starving,” he announced - sex with Geralt took a lot out of him.

“No bread in your pants?”

“I hope you didn’t just invite me here for my baked goods.”

“I didn’t invite you.”

“Ah. No you didn’t,” he nodded. That was fair.

If Geralt didn’t want to embrace, then he probably didn’t want him to sleep there, so before he got a chance to throw him out, naked on his arse, he stood, wobbled on his feet, then grabbed his clothes off the floor. “So I should probably go. Paid for a room after all and I won’t get my money’s worth if I’m larking around with you all night.”

“Mm. I’m tired,” Geralt agreed, stretching his arms above his head then letting them drop heavily to the mattress, feeling sleepy but incredibly sated.

He watched Jaskier dress: fastening his britches over his spent cock, pulling on his knee-length leather boots, and throwing on his white shirt without buttoning it. Combined with his messy hair hanging over his eyes and his lingering afterglow, he looked… well, he looked good.

Jaskier walked towards the door and opened it.

“Jaskier,” Geralt called after him, and he turned around, wondering if he had some gentle parting words for him.

“Hm?”

“What happens to the three-legged goat?”

A grin broke out on Jaskier’s face, and he laughed softly. He should have known. “Ah-ah. _No_. If you want to find out, you’ll have to stay for my performance next time,” he said with a wink.

“I see,” Geralt smiled, “fair enough,” and rolled over, burying his face in the pillow and closing his eyes.

Jaskier gazed at him fondly as he rested against the door frame, watching him for a few moments longer before finally turning away. “Goodnight, Witcher,” he said quietly as he exited the room, carefully closing the door behind him.

Geralt listened to the familiar footsteps as they retreated down the hall.

“Goodnight, Bard.”

*

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed that and that Geralt wasn't too OOC! I wanted to go somewhere between playful Geralt from Ep 4, gruff and sarcastic Geralt from Ep: All and not touch end of Ep 6 Geralt with a barge-pole. XO Don’t be mean to my precious Jasky…(possible petname? I really want to hear Geralt call him that! XD) So with season two I’m hoping for some extreme guilt followed by some make-up sex. Okay, so I don’t think that will happen XD *but* a return to their friendship would be nice. :)
> 
> Also, I have finally achieved my lifetime goal of finding a contextually appropriate use for the term ‘spoony bard’ and no longer have a reason to live. “Kill me. I’m readyyy.” ;)


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